


Bad For Business

by kabrox18



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Death Threats, Gambling, Gen, how do i tag panzer's bullshittery and how i relate to him kjdckjsaj
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27978903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kabrox18/pseuds/kabrox18
Summary: Swindle likes playing cards. Hisglorious leaderdisapproves of his little escapades.
Kudos: 4





	Bad For Business

**Author's Note:**

> a quickie little oneshot i penned up in [my friend's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicalUniverses) dm. featuring my oc-but-not-really-kinda-sorta, [Panzer.](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/633143517081894912/786450075760197672/unknown.png)

Swindle smiles, greasy and smug, as he rakes in the multicolored chips, greedily curling his fingers around them. One of the aliens swears at him and folds, dropping their cards and standing to storm off. 

“Would anyone else like to give in while they still have money?” he asks, looking around the table. Nobody answers, aside from a couple of sour glares. 

_“Swindle.”_

That voice made him sit up, ramrod straight, eyes bugging wide. He immediately clapped his plating close, lowering his head meekly as he hesitantly turned to peer into the smoky dark of the casino’s poker room. Red eyes like a pair of dying suns fixed on him, swaying as the mech in question strode closer. 

“‘Za,” he starts, sugary, and leans a little to make himself look even more submissive. Panzer _looms_ over him, dim silhouette long across the table. His eyes throw little shadows about his face, but his scowl is perfectly visible in the dirty, bare bulb hung over the table. 

Those eyes finally pull from him, looking around the poker table. _Everyone_ is staring; several different conmen from several different races—and all of them gawking. Panzer narrows his eyes to terse red slits. 

“Just one more round, I’ve almost got this in the bag,” Swindle pleads. The words fall on deaf ears, and Panzer casually reaches up, grabbing him by the head and lifting him effortlessly. His hand encircles the littler bot’s head easily. Swindle swings limply, wincing and trying to pull his neck up to reduce strain. Panzer gets right up in his face, close enough he can feel the heat from his vents and hear the tiny ticks and whirs from his eyes.

“I _told_ you—” 

“I know, I know! I just thought one little outing, on my own time, would be okay.” Swindle puts his hands up defensively. Panzer’s temper flares, pupils contracting into razor-thin slits. His hand tightens, and Swindle can hear the _cree-eee-eak_ of his own helm protesting the pressure. “Please, ‘Za, just lemme finish, I’m winning so much right now, I’ll be done and I’ll come back and you won’t even have to carry me—!” he babbles, praying that his merciless leader decides to have even the tiniest bit of mercy now.

“You’re lucky I don’t rip your chamber out of you and feed it to you,” the warlord says, darkly. “Right here in front of your filthy little _friends.”_ He turns his hateful gaze down to them, and they shuffle away uneasily. 

“Come on, please, I promise,” he begs, bringing his clasped hands up. Panzer regards him out of the corner of his eye, coldly. Like a predator weighing choice of prey. 

“Fine,” he says, remarkably levelly. “But I kill them, afterward, to prevent any further _excursions_ like this.” He drops Swindle into his seat, who winces at the clattering impact. Panzer proceeds to stand _right there_ beside Swindle, massive arms folded and glare unwavering. 

“Uh, m-maybe we can save it for next time, fellas?” he tries, looking between nervous faces. If it weren’t for Panzer being so damn _scary,_ Swindle would almost feel insulted by it all—like a naughty sparkling being dragged home by an overprotective parent. But no; Panzer is rooted next to him, feet planted, oozing threat and fury. 

It was like _hanging around Brawl._ It was _stifling._ It was _terrible for business!_

“There will not be, a ‘next time’,” Panzer reminds icily, closing an overly-large hand into an overly-large fist. Swindle can practically see the armament programming queueing up on his HUD, and hastily scoops up the cards, messily shuffling them up. 

“Better make it a good round then, huh? Am I right?” The aliens just look at him, mixtures of shock, hate, confusion, and terror on their faces. At least, that’s what he _thinks_ is on their faces. Or lack thereof. He smiles a little, shrugging helplessly. 

What Panzer wanted, _Panzer damn well got._ He didn’t give a retro-rat’s ass about what was good for business, only what was good for his faction, and for conquering. Like whole planets. Panzer liked having whole planets. That sort of thing wasn’t on the table here, however.

Swindle’s already strained smile becomes a little more hostile every time he glances over to the overbearing psycho he calls his boss, until it melts into what it really was: an annoyed grimace. 

“No need to hover, ‘Za,” he cheerfully reminds. “You haven’t got rotors.”

“Hurry up before I grow bored,” he says, ignoring the comment and dropping his arms again. 

He flexes his hand, armor sliding aside as his cannon pours out, forging in rings and hardlight. One of the aliens closest to him shoots a look over to it, sweat popping out across their grey-green brow. That cannon alone was nearly the same size as them. Panzer leaned back slightly, making himself look even bigger. 

Swindle can _feel_ the wicked satisfaction rolling off him, curdling the air about his chassis with the thin output of a shielded electromagnetic field.

“Why bother with games when you can simply kill them and rob them?” Panzer queries, smugness returning to disgust with the downward curl of his tone. Swindle registers the dim sensation of eyes fixed on the back of his head, and gestures a little, shrugging one-shouldered.

“Repeat customers make me more money, and they can’t come back to me if they’re _dead,”_ Swindle answers, not actually looking up. 

Panzer makes a _noise_ in his throat, a subvocal threat. Swindle flinches a tiny bit. 

“Your business has been advantageous to the Cause in the past,” he muses aloud, eyeballing the nearest alien almost _hungrily._ They blink at him and promptly retract their head into their torso, eyes peeping out of their shell fearfully. 

“Exactly, which is why killing these clients is _bad,”_ he explains slowly. Panzer’s fist tightens. The fusion cannon purrs to life. Swindle swallows and wisely ducks again. 

“Fine,” he says, looking across the table down his nose. “Play your _game._ I expect you to return to the fleet within the next day. If you do not,” he says, airily, and leans down, “I will personally gut your _clients_ and turn _you_ into an automaton.” He pauses, then, letting the warning sink in. He leans closer, so his mouth is practically at Swindle’s ear. Something like sick delight rises through his expression at Swindle’s visible discomfort. Then he continues, fangs flashing, words like envenomed gunshots. “I need Bruticus. _I do not need_ **you.** ” 

“Yes sir,” Swindle says, barely above a whisper. Panzer straightens, shooting one last look at the cowering aliens, then mercifully stalks off. 

Swindle drops his head onto his arms, feeling like a weight was just lifted off.

“Primus _below,_ I really hate that guy,” he mumbles, rubbing his forehead.


End file.
